


These Uncharted Waters

by whitecap



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, I'm mad as heck at TFP, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parentlock, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Season/Series 04, Series 04 Fix-it, Slow Burn, and I'm fixing it, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:26:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitecap/pseuds/whitecap
Summary: What begins in the aftermath builds and bends and becomes.





	1. Olive Branch

**Author's Note:**

> The Final Problem hit me hard, and I am turning my heartbreak into art. 
> 
> What follows is my imagining of what might happen afterwards, what they may become.
> 
> Pardon me if anything's off, I'm American, and I don't always get the Brit stuff right. Also, I tend to write around 3-4 AM, and I'm new to AO3. All of this bodes well....
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

_ In a clean, bright house in a quiet suburb, a DVD player whirs for a moment and then clicks. _

 

The silence that follows is a heavy one. Sherlock stands rigid, eyes to the left as far as they will go without turning his head, gauging John’s reaction. He’s been learning lately that the best way to navigate these uncharted waters, these  _ emotions _ , this  _ sentiment _ , is to stand back and observe before acting, in order to assure that he is not overstepping some invisible (to him) emotional line- the kind that everyone can see but him. It’s tiring, and it’s starting to feel less like he’s above it all, and more like he’s….behind it, running to catch up. He’s not superior, he’s  _ benighted _ . 

 

There exist formulae for easier situations that help with undercover work, simpler things, but it’s always felt a tad gauche to run John through the machine of inputting variables to decide what to say, though truly, if you get right down to it, that’s what all humans are doing, all the time, it just appears less mathematic to them-

 

“Well,” says John, exhaling a shaky breath and by breaking the silence giving Sherlock permission to move his head. “That one’s a bit cheerier than the last one.”

 

“I suppose it is,” Sherlock agrees. An air of falsified nonchalance.  _ Interesting _ .

 

“Think she’s got any more of these in store?” Sherlock can see that John is anxious at that possibility. “You know,  _ open in case Sherlock dies, open in case you get kidnapped, open in case you lose your legs, open in case of you’ve run out of milk, _ that kind of thing?” John attempts a laugh.

 

“John,” Sherlock begins, turning his body towards the couch. “You have just seen your dead wife,  heard her voice.” His voice is gentle, cautious. “You are allowed to be….a bit shaken up.”

 

“I’m not shaken,” John lies admirably. Sherlock stopped reminding every single person he interacts with that he knows every time they lie a long time ago. Alienates them. Besides, sometimes things work better if lies like that go unaddressed.

 

“Mind if I sit?” Sherlock asks. John waves at the other end of the couch, small grunt.

 

“‘My Baker Street boys’,” John says quietly, the corner of his mouth turning up.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing,” John responds. “It is a bit weird, though.”

 

“I suppose it is, though I really have no precedent by which I can compare posthumous video messages, as I’ve only known two people to leave them, and the other was an insane overlord who forced me to fake my own death.”

 

John laughs, just a short exhale, but it’s a good sign. Sherlock smiles slightly. “Should she really be encouraging me to go off chasing danger now that we have Rosie? Do you think she recorded these before we had her? But that means she would have had to have done it before the wedding, even, and that- Plus, ‘my Baker Street boys’? What the hell is she on about? She  _ shot _ you! None of this makes  _ sense! _ ” John’s tone of voice has been escalating with every sentence. There’s the shaken up. This feels better, less unexpected.

 

“John, without tracking down whoever’s mailing these out, we can’t ever know her logic,” Sherlock says, calmly and kindly, and if they both didn’t know better, with an air of sympathy.

 

“So use your deduction thing! Look at the envelope, figure it out! I want to cancel my subscription to the Dead Mary of the Month Club!” John is growing visibly upset.

 

“It’s a standard envelope, no fingerprints except for hers, mine, and yours,” Sherlock says, reluctantly taking the envelope and spinning it in his hands. “John, I’m sorry, but whoever is sending these obviously knows us well enough to monitor our lives in order to determine when we need them, and therefore can be assured, even with the limited powers of logic most of our friends possess, they’d know that I’d be looking for clues, and would perhaps go to some sort of lengths to avoid them.” He sighs. “I don’t know who’s sending them. I’m really sorry.”

 

“It’s not your fault,” John says, sighing, after a minute passes. “It’s just….not easy when the person you’re mourning keeps popping up.”

 

“Good thing I never sent you any videos when I was gone, then,” Sherlock says.

 

Oops, wrong thing to say. John’s jaw clenches, and he exhales out of his nose. The silence stretches on. Finally, the DVD player powers itself off, but the TV automatically switches over to the news, and the room is filled with the voice of a foreign correspondent explaining the minutiae of some new, boring aspect of the American election season’s aftermath. There’s a weird fluke in his television set where the volume of the DVD player is much lower than the actual television, and this results in a loud burst of noise whenever this happens. It drove Mary nuts. John shuts it off quickly, but the damage is already done. Rosie’s cries began to fill the room, tinny from the baby monitor.

 

“I’d better go deal with that,” he says, rising to his feet.

 

_ You’d better go, Sherlock _ , he can almost hear John say. The message is clear, even to him.

 

_ I don’t want you to push me away again _ . The thought catches Sherlock unawares, and he can practically see question marks in his mind, reacting to himself.

 

“I’m going to go find some Chinese food,” he says, thinking fast. Everyone knows that Sherlock Holmes has the social awareness of a desk chair, and he knows John will chalk this one up to his ineptitude. He’ll stay, and pretend that he isn’t aware that he isn’t welcome, and John will let him. “She won’t have any, will she?”

 

“Sherlock, she’s not even a year old, you idiot, of course she’s not eating Chinese food.” Sherlock begins to walk towards the door. “Get me chicken, though, I don’t really care what kind. Surprise me.” Sherlock smiles to himself as John disappears upstairs, talking to his daughter as he moves towards her. Success.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Chinese is good, but the flavors are slightly different than the one near 221B. They eat at the kitchen table, Rosie in her high chair, using her fingers to eat some sort of horrid mashed pea thing. 

 

“So, where are you staying, then?” John asks around a mouthful of rice.

 

“Hmm? Oh, I‘ve got places. Don’t worry about me.” Sherlock picks at the corner of an egg roll.

 

“Well, that’s vague,” John says, taking a bite of broccoli. “And slightly concerning. Not another crack den, is it?” 

 

Sherlock looks up sharply. “Of course not.”

 

“Sorry,” John says, raising a hand and an eyebrow.

 

“It’s not a crack den.”

 

“Where is it, then?”

 

“I own a property….won it in a card game,” Sherlock says.

 

“Oh my god, you’re staying in that plays where we tricked Mary into confessing?” John asks incredulously. “Are you  _ serious _ ?” 

 

“It’s dry, and I have a mattress. I haven’t replaced most of my posessions yet, so storage space isn’t exactly an issue.”

 

“Mycroft, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, myself-”

 

“What are you  _ talking about _ , John-”

 

“All people who would be happy to let you stay. All of whom have  _ working indoor plumbing! _ ”

“Oh, I thought you were just making a happy little alliteration,” Sherlock snarks.

 

“Sherlock, have you really been living there since Baker Street got blown up?”

 

Sherlock’s silence is all the answer John needs, apparently. He scowls like a surly teenager caught coming home late.

 

“Why are you doing this?”

 

Still no answer. He takes a defiant bite of the egg roll. Rosie runs green fingers through her hair. 

 

“Sherlock,” John says, quietly. He sighs, and Sherlock meets his eyes, ashamed to find pity dancing in them.

 

“I blew up Mrs. Hudson’s home, I broke Molly Hooper’s heart,  _ again _ , I might add, I got you thrown down a well, and Mycroft….”

 

“You’re too stubborn to ask him for help,” John guesses. Sherlock doesn’t deny it. “Sherlock, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were pushing us away.”

 

“I’m not the one- never mind. I’m fine where I am.”

 

“Sherlock, how in the hell do you even take a shower?”

 

“Breaking and entering’s only a crime if you’re caught,” Sherlock says, with a sheepish smirk.

 

“Oh, come on, that’s- you are preposterous. Go to your little fort, pack up your stuff, we have a guest room upstairs.”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows bunch together.

 

“Just until you have a real bedroom again. Don’t make me change my mind. And no severed limbs, okay?”

 

It’s an olive branch, and Sherlock knows it. Besides, maybe somewhere, John misses him, misses living together, despite his eccentricities and unbearable living habits. Sherlock sets down his egg roll and heads for the door once more.

  
“John,” he says quietly, turning back. “Thank you.”


	2. Embroidered Ducks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soon Sherlock finds a way to earn his keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my fellow johnlock sufferers here's another chapter

  
  
Navigating the mornings with Sherlock at his home felt distinctly different than it had at Baker Street. Even Sherlock Holmes, who had probably somehow taken inventory of and memorized the layout of his entire house within seven seconds of entering for the first time, was not immune to the inevitable ill at ease feeling that arose from a human living in a space that was not designed for them, or rather, a space designed by other people, for themselves- not a blank, neutral, all-purpose place like a hotel or coffee shop, but a home, furnished and decorated specifically for the lives of others. It was as if someone had broken the chemical bond between the John molecule and his own, and then bonded John’s with an alien compound, Mary-and-baby, but with Mary’s death, the structure was unstable. There were vases, but no flowers, wedding presents meant for the two of them, a woman’s hand cream in the powder room.

 

He had decided to pause on the detective work, unless there was something fantastically out of the ordinary (murder was not scheduled around his home remodelling, after all) until 221B became habitable again. John and Sherlock had agreed that sending clients to John’s house wasn’t a good idea for now. Well, mostly John had agreed.

 

_ You need to take a break, Sherlock _ , he had said when he caught Sherlock scanning the obituaries at six in the morning after the first night.  _ Did you even go to bed last night? _

 

_ I need to be doing  _ something _ , John. I can’t just sit still after all of that. _

 

_ What you  _ can’t  _ do and what you  _ need  _ to do are often two separate things, Sherlock. _

 

What did that even mean?

 

“So, any idea how long the renovations’ll take, then?” John asked, snapping Sherlock out of his thoughts. He was pouring orange juice into a pitcher. It seemed like a performance, as if he was attempting to signal to Sherlock that he was more stable than he really was. Sherlock knew, of course, that the pitcher hadn’t been used since before Mary’s death, for sangria at brunch, apparently, and that John hadn’t had orange juice in possibly longer.

 

“Shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks befor I can start sleeping there again,” Sherlock said. “The room where the grenade actually detonated will take longer to be back to normal.”

 

“I saw the damage,” John said, nodding. “It’s absurd how little is actually lost.” He placed a glass of orange juice in front of Sherlock without asking. 

 

“Yes, miraculous indeed.”

 

“You want some toast or something?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

They sat quietly as John ate his breakfast. Sherlock took a diplomatic sip of his orange juice, giving John a quick smile. In the high chair, Rosie was mashing her hands in some puréed carrots, very little actually winding up in her mouth. Sherlock found himself watching her, the way she carried on oblivious to the adult dynamics of the room. If it wasn’t mushy and orange, it didn’t matter to her. She made all sorts of tiny little noises. They sat that way for a while, eating, sipping, mashing; John watching Sherlock, Sherlock watching Rosie, Rosie watching the carrot purée.

 

“Sherlock…..” John started after he had finished his toast.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but he looked at John.

 

“I suppose I should ask you…..”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Are you….you know….in danger?”

 

“Danger? I should think I’m rather safer, given that my sister is no longer her particular breed of megalomanic, somewhat outlandish threat.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.” John cleared his throat, scratching his neck awkwardly.

 

“Oh, you mean the  _ drugs _ .” Sherlock stated, somewhat sardonically. He looked down into his glass of orange juice. 

 

“Sherlock, you were  _ dying _ ,” John said with an accusatory look. 

 

“I’m fine now,” Sherlock said.

 

“Are you sure?” 

 

“Yes. Completely.”

 

The two stared at each other, Sherlock’s gaze edgy and defensive, and John’s concerned and slightly frustrated.

 

“You’d tell me, though? If you ever feel….close to using again?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You promise?”   
  


“I promise,” Sherlock said reluctantly. They stared in silence for a bit longer until John’s phone rang, snapping them both out of it.

 

“Hello?”

 

“ _ Hi John, this is Deanna….” _

 

“Hi Deanna, is everything okay?”

 

_ “Actually, listen, I’m really sorry, but I’m coming down with the flu… I normally wouldn’t do this, but I don’t want to get Rosie sick….” _

 

“No, no, that’s fine. I understand.”

 

_ “I’m really sorry about this.” _

 

“It’s okay. Get better soon, alright?”   
  


_ “I will. Thanks for your understanding.” _

 

“Alright. Bye then.”

 

_ “Bye.” _

 

John pressed  _ END _ with a sigh.

 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked. “Is everything okay?”

 

“It’s Rosie’s regular babysitter. She comes practically every day since…. I became a single father. She’s been a godsend, takes her overnight sometimes, but she’s gotten the flu. It’s been going around, seen loads of people at the clinic coming down with it.”

 

“You can afford to have someone round that often?”

 

“Mary had a safety deposit box…. I don’t even want to think about how she got ahold of that money, but it’s taking care of Rosie, and you know what they say about gift horses.”

 

“That you probably shouldn’t accept them if you think that they were gained through blackmail, armed heists, or assassination?” Sherlock snarked.

 

“That you don’t look them in the mouth,” John said, a bit guiltily. “Anyway, I’ll probably have to call off work now, but I took off so much time to go chase down your sister and everything…”

 

“I can look after her,” Sherlock offered after a moment of deliberation.

 

“What?” John asked, a bit dumbfounded. “You don’t know the first thing about childcare.”

 

“It’s not a difficult science, and besides, the only reason you took off so much lately was to help me defeat Euros. I owe you.”

 

“If you’re sure….” John trailed off, dubious.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “How hard can it be?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Very hard, apparently.

 

When John left the house, Rosie began to wail for him, arms stretching towards where she’d seen him last. Sherlock attempted to sooth her with the only tool in his belt: pure, cold reason.

 

It didn’t work.

 

Finally, the screaming began to die down, presumably because her throat must have been hurting tremendously by then, her cheeks almost purple with the effort. Sherlock decided to help her finish her breakfast, spooning puréed carrot into her mouth, which seemed to calm her. 

 

“That’s the thing about ordinary people,” Sherlock remarked, “they’re always placated by food.”

 

After a remarkably eventful bath-  _ you’re supposed to want the carrots  _ out  _ of your hair, not spread out even more! _ \- Sherlock had finally wrangled her into a pink sundress, embroidered with little ducks, and matching hat. 

 

“Should we go to the park?” 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  
When they had come back from the park, and Sherlock had struggled his way through lunchtime and the subsequent nappy change, as well as a session of play with some sort of plastic animal and shape contraption. he was beginning to feel exhausted from his self-inflicted all nighter and decided that they should sit on the couch and watch television. He found a suitable children’s programme with illogically colored people and sat down to watch with Rosie on his lap. He began to find himself falling asleep soon afterwards, lulled by the gentle, twinkling music and soft lights. Rosie followed suit, Sherlock having forgotten about her nap, and that’s how John found them a few hours later, sleeping curled up on the couch, as if Sherlock was her grandmother and not one of the smartest, most dangerous men in London. He felt a surge of affection swell in his chest, and covered the duo with a blanket as he began to cook dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no fucking clue if British people even drink OJ for breakfast. let me know in the comments because I spent like thirty minutes googling it and couldn’t find a definitive answer and it’s driving me a lil bananas
> 
> Also sangria is that a thing in the ole UK
> 
> Basically if you’re british please please tell me what you eat for breakfast because I’m sensing that breakfast will come up again in this fic….. Ominous, eh?
> 
> And it’s my headcanon that Mary left a bunch of dubiously moral funds behind ~~to clear up plotholes like how the fuck they can afford such a nice house and car~~ to help Rosie


	3. From The Latin 'Vulnus'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slip-up reveals who's behind the messages, and Sherlock has difficulty processing some new knowledge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still salty that the grenade literally detonated on top of the rug and yet we see it’s perfectly fine during the rebuilding montage…………. And the steer skull was ENGULFED IN FLAMES RIGHT BEFORE OUR VERY EYES………………. ahem.
> 
> Anyway, I’ve received some pretty devastating personal news (not a death or an illness or anything, don’t worry), so while fic is my escape and i’m still 100% invested because it’s how I cope, forgive me for any egregious errors (or at least be gentle when pointing them out). Thank you. Hope you enjoy :)

They arrived at 221B to further survey the damage a few days later. Sherlock would never have admitted it, but he was secretly glad that Deanna the nanny had gotten sick. It gave him something to do, and as frustrating as the child was, he could tell that John was grateful. Besides, she was going to be a large part of his life forever, and he knew that he would have to accept it if he wanted John to continue to be a part of his own. But surprisingly….he almost didn’t mind.

 

Almost. Once she was out of nappies, maybe then.

 

It was Deanna’s first day back, and John met him at 221B after work. So much had been undamaged, it truly was remarkable. Sherlock was in the kitchen, testing the electricity, when John came in. He knocked on the open door to announce his presence.

 

“You don’t have to knock,” Sherlock called from the kitchen.

 

“Right,” John said to himself, stepping over some debris into the main room. “Have you done some cleaning already?” He noticed that the desk chair was righted, and the desk cleared off, with a couple of books laid atop it.

 

“Aaah!” Sherlock shouted, and drew his hand back, shaking it around.

 

“What is it? Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine, just a little shock,” he insisted, opening and closing his right hand.

 

“Want me to take a look at it?”

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock repeated. “Electricity should only take a little bit of work. In the kitchen, at least.”

 

“Are you going to have to get some workers to clear all of the burnt stuff out?”

 

“Probably will,” Sherlock said. “Wallpaper will need redone, wiring too. It’s going to take a few weeks,” he said, turning away from John and busying himself with the teacups to avoid John’s reaction.

 

“That’s okay, I don’t want you getting right back into...all of it-” John gestured at the broken science equipment strewn across the kitchen table- “right away.”

 

“Oh?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Rest, Sherlock, we talked about this. You’ve had a harrowing few weeks, you’re still experiencing some withdrawal, and it’s not good for anyone to throw themselves back in so soon.”

 

“You’re at work,” Sherlock pointed out, running his thumb across the rim of a teacup that was, miraculously, still whole. 

 

“My work doesn’t involve high speed chases, getting shot at, starving myself ‘to think better’, or any of the other things you get up to.”

 

“Because you’re boring,” Sherlock said, never one to pass up a good opportunity to sulk. He turned around to face John, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was leaning against the doorway.

 

“Sherlock, you’re not yourself lately,” he said gently.

 

“Maybe I’m changing,” Sherlock countered. They found themselves once again engaging in the intense eye contact that neither had ever experienced to the same degree with anyone else, waiting for something, anything, to give them an excuse to look away; the intensity of the gaze terrifying, and yet….neither could find themselves willing to pull away.

 

This time, it was Mrs. Hudson who played the role of icebreaker. They hadn’t heard their landlady on the stairs, but her usual “Yoohoo!” announced her presence.

 

“Ah, Mrs. Hudson,” John called. “Hello.”

 

“Oh, John! It’s so lovely to see you. I was worried you wouldn’t come around as much again, what with the explosion and everything. Terrible business, dreadful. That sister of yours,” she said, wagging a finger at Sherlock. She had made her way through the detritus of their sitting room and joined them in the kitchen. “Mycroft was filling me in on the whole ordeal…. Tell me you’re not staying here, young man.”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock assured her.

 

She raised an eyebrow. “Because it’s not exactly unlike you to do something like that.”

 

“He’s staying with me. Promise,” John put in.

 

“Aw, lovely!” Mrs. Hudson said, turning her head to the side and clasping her hands together in front of her chest fondly. “I knew that video would get you two dears back together again. She was right, Baker Street Boys-”

 

“Wait-” John started.

 

“When were you talking to Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“He came round, offering to help pay for some of the renovations. I thought it was very kind of him. Bit out of character, though, I thought, normally he would just-”

 

“The video,” John said, waving a hand to stop her from blathering on about Mycroft.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s expression froze. “Er, yes, the video from Mary. The one where she gave Sherlock his case.”

 

“Oh. Wait, if-”

 

“You showed him that video?” Sherlock demanded, closing the distance between him and Mrs. Hudson in a few strides of his long legs. “He knows about that case?”

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said.

 

“Hang on. No, not that video,” John said. “No, that doesn’t make sense. You knew we teamed up again after that one. Sherlock, what did she say?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, John,” Sherlock sighed.

 

“How can you not know? You memorise everything!” John was starting to get worked up.

 

“Semi-permanent mute, remember?” Sherlock said, shooting him an apologetic look.

 

“Bullshit, Sherlock, you’re better than that lately.” John turned back to Mrs. Hudson, a fiercely intense gaze on his face. “You said ‘Baker Street Boys’. That’s- that’s- those are  _ her _ words. You weren’t talking about the first video, were you!” He accused. “I haven’t told anyone but Sherlock about that one. Sherlock, did you-”

 

“Not a word,” Sherlock swore.

 

“Then it’s you. It’s you sending out the videos.”

 

“Yes, I should have wondered why the first one was ‘mixed up in your things’,” Sherlock said. 

 

“Is it you?” John demanded. “Well?”

 

“Alright! It was me,” Mrs. Hudson admitted, throwing her hands up in defeat.

 

“Mrs. Hudson!” John shouted. “When did- how- are there any more?”

 

“Why don’t we go get a bite to eat? I’ll explain everything. I’d offer you to come round downstairs, but, well, I’m afraid someone’s gone and blown up the electricity down there.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

Sherlock stared moodily out the window, replaying in his mind palace Mary’s DVD message, the one addressed to him, marked  _ Miss Me? _

 

If Mrs. Hudson had showed John the video, that meant that John knew. He knew why Sherlock had decided to track down Culverton Smith. He never wanted John to know. He had wanted John to assume that he was being his usual, preposterous self, with perhaps a bit more….intoxication this time. But if John knew about his reasons for picking a fight with Culverton Smith, then it wasn’t a difficult leap, he assumed, for even a person of John’s capacities to put two and two together about the incredible amounts of drugs he had been using.

 

“Did go to medical school, must count for something,” Sherlock muttered quietly to the window.

 

“What did you say?” John asked from somewhere miles away. Sherlock waved a hand as a memory began to play.

 

_ John’s hand, gentle, even though he was angry, not a handshake; what then? Turning his own hand over, warm palms reassuring; pushing back Sherlock’s dirty sleeve. Taking in the track marks on his arm.  _

 

_ John, anger melting into disappointment, maybe? Hurt? Confusion? Still some anger? Pity, betrayal….what? All of the above? Too much light in the therapist’s home to tell. Never was much  good with these things anyway. _

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. In the moment, he had been too high for any of John’s reactions to cause him remorse, but the picture remained, clear as the first time. 

 

Another memory took over, unbidden. The pink lady’s case. Lestrade was standing in his flat, with Anderson. John was there too: their first dance.

 

_ You can’t just break into my flat. _

 

_ You can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t break into your flat. _

 

_ Well, what do you call this? _

 

_ It’s a drugs bust! _

 

_ Seriously, this guy, a junkie!? Have you even met him? _

 

John, so loyal and quick, even after only a few hours.

 

_ John. _

 

_ I’m pretty sure you could search around this flat all day, and you wouldn’t find a single thing you could call recreational. _

 

_ John, you probably want to shut up now. _

 

_ Yeah, but come on! _

 

John’s face falling, that realization hitting him for the first time. Even the most open minded of people were still affected by the lifetime of stigma surrounding intravenous drug use. Sherlock couldn’t access John’s full facial expression from that night. Hadn’t found it important enough, apparently, had deleted it. Stupid. Of course it mattered. 

 

_ No. _ Incredulous, now.  _ You!? _

 

Sherlock ran his hand down his face.

 

_ If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me _ . 

 

_ ….all for a case…. _

 

_ A case? What kind of case would need you doing this? _

 

_ Sherlock? Well? _

 

Hang on, no, that was wrong, because he had answered-

 

“Sherlock!” 

 

John’s voice, the not-mind-palace version. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he looked around, a bit disoriented. Back of a cab, John to his left, emotions….he scanned John’s face. Worried, from the eyebrows, annoyed by the set of his mouth. They were returning to John's home, after Mrs. Hudson's revelations. Mary had recorded them before she left after the whole A. G. R. A. business, and left Mrs. Hudson a box of DVDs and explicit instructions on the timing of the videos. Mrs. Hudson had refused to tell John and Sherlock if there were any more for them- apparently, she had one for each of Rosie's birthdays until she was in her twenties, but other than that, she refused to peep. 

 

“I know that you’re struggling with anhedonia, but for the love of god, Sherlock….”

 

“I am  _ fine _ ,” Sherlock said. A few seconds, and then he smiled with what he thought was his best, most reassuring expression. Too late, apparently, John seemed to have been able to tell that he was acting. He should have smiled sooner.

 

“Yes,  _ clearly _ ,” John said. “Tell me then, what street are we on? ‘Cause I know you’ve got London mapped out in your head like a- a- a map. So where are we?”

 

Sherlock looked down. “No idea.”

 

“Sherlock,” John sighed.

 

“Look, do you have any clue how hard it was- it is for me?” Sherlock snapped. The driver glanced back at them cautiously.

 

“Of course I do,” John said. “I saw your drug tests. You were-”

 

“Alone. In that _ward_. Inpatient drug treatment was  _ appalling _ . Everyone was an imbecile, and when I very kindly tried to demonstrate that fact-” John raised an eyebrow- “okay, I might have lashed out a bit, but I was in pain, and shaking, and-” Sherlock exhaled, frustrated. He had thought that he had deleted those few weeks from his memory. And even if he hadn’t, he didn’t want John to know how  _ hard _ it had been for him. So he’d been angry, and dying, and still recovering from organ damage when they’d sent him to rehab out of the hospital, and he’d had a bloody and brutal crash course in how susceptible he still was to human things like-

 

Vulnerability. He never wanted John to know how truly vulnerable he was. Because if John knew how vulnerable Sherlock Holmes was at his very core, the scared child with withdrawal sickness, hallucinations, and shaking limbs, and he abandoned him again- well, it was one thing to cut someone out if you didn’t think they’d miss you, it was another to see how much someone needed you and then, knowing their weakness, abandon them anyway.

 

Vulnerable: from the Latin root  _vulnus_ , a wound or injury, or  _vulnerare_ , to wound or injure.

 

If he let John in, and John left again knowing how vulnerable he was….it would hurt so much more.

 

“I could have used a visit, that’s all,” Sherlock said finally, slumping down in his seat.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve purposefully muddled up Sherlock’s memory of dialogue from the Study In Pink Scene a bit. He has a mind palace, but not a photographic memory, and I don’t think it was important enough to him at the time to commit it so thoroughly to memory, and it’s been so many years. 
> 
> Artistic license, or something….?
> 
> \-----------
> 
> My fic has turned out angstier than I thought it would have been. But I have a lot of fluffier stuff in store, I promise!!!!!!!!
> 
> Kudos & comments are much appreciated! Let me know what you liked, what you didn't, what is overwhelmingly Not British in my fic :) Thanks for reading! More soon!
> 
> (I'm thinking they're long overdue for some Garridebs...)


	4. Growing Pains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no way to grow that doesn't hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this at about three this morning (and forgot to actually post it, oops) so forgive my mistakes. I set out to write something way angstier, but alas....

That night, back at John's house, the atmosphere, though not quite frosty, was certainly cooler than it had been over the past few days. The warmth that had been seeping back into their friendship had taken an autumn chill, the threat of ice on the horizon.

"I think I might head to the lab," Sherlock announced after John had put Rosie down to bed and was settling in to watch some BBC drama on the telly.

"Are you sure you don't want to watch this?" John offered, knowing very well that he would be bored by the concept: something about a married female scientist carrying on a torrid affair. Truthfully, John had been watching a lot of telly lately, and he wasn't exactly discerning when it came to the subject matter; it was something to do. It was adult conversation he couldn't get from Rosie, and it made him feel less alone. 

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, smiling a bit tensely. 

"You're not....getting yourself caught up in a case or anything, are you?" John asked. 

"No, of course not. Just a bit of chemistry, that's all. It's something from a case a while back. Solved, of course, but I'd become intrigued by the properties of a certain poisonous substance. I've been meaning to recreate it in the lab for ages, but I never had time. Other priorities. I want to see how it behaves in a more controlled environment."

"Sounds riveting," John said, raising an eyebrow. "I'll leave the door unlocked."

"Oh, you don't have to do that," Sherlock said, a bit awkwardly. "I know you don't want to put Rosie in danger."

"It's fine. Actually, wait. Here, hold on a sec." John stood up from the couch, setting his drink on the table before heading into the kitchen. Sherlock followed, head back, cautious, unsure, observing. 

John's body language was hard to read. Sherlock squinted at him, watching his back as he opened up a drawer to the side of the fridge and dug around in it.

"You might as well take this," he stated, feigning nonchalance, holding his hand out, a closed fist. Sherlock held his own underneath it, and into his waiting palm John dropped a small bronze house key. 

"It was Mary's. She doesn't exactly need it anymore," he said, adding that small half-mouth smile that he often reserved for those types of dark little jokes the two of them shared: things that tended to rub others the wrong way or at least make them look at John and Sherlock strangely. 

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, meaning it. He caught John's gaze. He was looking at the detective meaningfully. This was a significant moment for him, he thought. House guests didn't get keys. He was trying to bridge the gap that had opened up earlier. Sherlock realized somewhere that he should make amends somehow too. The problem was that the only way he knew how was usually circuitous at best: he would gloss it over, and then make it up another way by saving his life or doing something nice disguised as acting in his own self interest, only to leave the other party subconsciously grateful and more likely to forgive him. 

He remembered a conversation he'd had recently, advice he'd gotten: _no matter how alien it might feel to you, be direct._

"John, I'm sorry for earlier. In the cab."

John seemed taken aback, head cocked sideways. 

"Oh?"

"I was in my mind palace. Pretty deep. I didn't mean to take it out on you the way I did."

"It's alright. Though I mean, you may have had a point, there."

"I did?" Sherlock's turn for confusion. 

"I should have visited you. And for that, I am genuinely sorry." Sherlock ducked his head at this, unable to sustain eye contact any longer. John reached out and put his hand gently on Sherlock's upper arm. 

It should have felt awkward, given everything that had transpired between them recently, but it somehow wasn't. Even through his shirt, John's hand felt warm and comfortable where it rested on his arm. 

"I know that was a hard time for you, and you shouldn't have had to go through it alone."

"It's alright, John." Sherlock said. "I've spent a lot of time going through similar things alone."

John sighed, pursing his lips. "But you shouldn't have to."

"I'm a solitary creature, John, and while I-" Sherlock noticed John bristling. "No, no- I don't mean- I just mean that while I treasure your company dearly, it's easier for me to go at it alone than it might be for someone else to under the same circumstances."

"Sherlock, I saw how hurt you looked. Earlier, in the cab." 

"John Watson, perhaps, as painful and bloody a process as it might be, I am growing a heart, and with such a change comes side effects."

John stared at him, unable to formulate a response. He didn't remember taking his hand off of Sherlock's shoulder, but he was glad he had already done so, because touching Sherlock at that moment would have been a bit too much. He leaned back against the bit of countertop where the drawer was. Such a statement coming from Sherlock was a lot to process. He was about to open his mouth to ask him to clarify, but Sherlock was faster to speak. 

"You know about Mary's video, then? The one she sent me? The one about you?"

"Yeah." John looked down. "Mrs. Hudson showed it to me, when you were in the hospital after the whole brandishing a knife at Culverton Smith ordeal."

"Ah. I did rather assume you just had impeccable timing."

"I let you down," John said. "You did all those deductions, you know, where I'd be at the therapist's, seeing Molly, the bit with the walking stick, and you thought I'd be there of my own accord, to rush in and save you. But if I hadn't seen the video....." John trailed off. 

"I would have died," Sherlock said quietly. 

"You put too much faith in me," he said. 

"John, the fact that I am standing before you today, with all of my organs functional, if a tad impaired, is evidence that said faith is grounded in unflinching truth."

"You really did all of that-put yourself in so much danger- for me?"

"I have been tortured in Serbia to keep you safe," Sherlock said lightly, tilting his head, considering. "All things weighed, this was nothing."

"That doesn't exactly make me feel better," John said.

"I save you, you save me. It's our modus operandi," Sherlock reminded him. "It's probably pretty even on the score card."

"I know you threw yourself into the serial killer shark tank for me, with the whole Culverton Smith thing, but what i don't know is...." He trailed off. "Sherlock....did you start....." His voice was scratchy and quiet, emotional. He was staring at his socks. "Did you relapse because of me? To pull me out? Because I don't know how I can live with myself if you did." It was the first time he was really contemplating everything that the video meant. There hadn't been much time after he'd seen it the first time, he'd been too busy driving across London to save Sherlock, and then the detective had been in rehab, and there'd hardly been a moment to slow down and breathe during the ordeal with Euros.

"John, you know I relapsed well before Mary died." Sherlock looked pained. "I'd been using for months."

"Yes, what did trigger that? You'd been clean for so long."

"I promise you, it wasn't your fault. That is-" he amended- "it wasn't for you to save me."

"Will you make me another promise, then?" John asked. 

"Of course."

"I have," he started, "no bloody idea how difficult it must be to recover after that level of drug use, but I have been around an alcoholic sister enough to know that that temptation is never going to leave, only fade a bit. I want you to promise me that if it gets bad- the cravings, the anhedonia, whatever, that you'll let me know. You'll tell me, and we can work through it together."

Sherlock looked at his feet, hesitant. Truthfully, every waking moment was a hard one, unless he was thoroughly distracted. And that only happened in a few ways: the thrill of the chase, the challenge of the puzzle, or spending time with- 

No, just the puzzle, just the chase. Laughing with John alleviated it a bit, of course, but once that fix was ended, when John was in bed or at work, it only hurt worse, for some reason. 

"I promise," he lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!! As always, thanks for reading!! *sparkle emoji*


	5. It Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long overdue truth comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took every molecule of my self-restraint not to write cutting board here
> 
> and to not name this chapter 'onion'

They were cooking dinner together when it happened again.

 

Technically, however, John was doing most of the cooking, as Sherlock browsed Twitter and the news, pausing occasionally to respond to whatever chatter John threw his way.

 

“Here, why don’t you make yourself useful and chop this up,” John said, setting down a chopping board, knife, and onion on the table in front of Sherlock. Sherlock looked up, a look of affront on his face that the situation in no way warranted.

 

“John, I am-”

 

“Yeah, I know, doing very important things, I’m sure.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, but slid his phone into his pocket nonetheless. He inspected the onion, rotating it in his long fingers before setting it on the chopping board. He began to slice, stopping occasionally to discard a bit of the papery outer layer.

 

“How small?”

 

“Pretty small,” John replied. “Should we have wine, do you think? I’ve got loads of it.” He turned around, waiting for an answer. He could see Sherlock hesitate, unsure of whether or not to agree. Too late, John wondered if it was wise to give Sherlock another addictive substance so soon after his relapse; it would be too easy to replace one addiction with another, according to his experiences with patients. Or would Sherlock really be susceptible to falling into the grips of a substance that didn’t enhance brainwork? Was he too eager for some sort of fix to care about that? Should John tell him to go back to work so that he didn’t start drinking? Was he emotionally vulnerable enough after all that happened with Euros that he might? But would going back to cases be even worse? Would he-

 

_ Aaaah _ .

 

John’s first instinct was a split second of relief that Sherlock wouldn’t have to answer his question and that he wouldn’t be forced to make a decision, but it was soon washed away by the involuntary emotion that the text alert had always brought on. There wasn’t really a name for that emotion, thought John, it was just….. Whatever the emotional equivalent of a clenched jaw was. 

 

Sherlock, to his credit, didn’t seem exactly thrilled at the noise either. He seemed frozen, eyes darting to the side to register John’s reaction before he decided what to do with his facial features. John had seen this before: his friend would still, almost imperceivable, rake his eyes around the scene, and feed observations into some sort of mental formula that would determine what might be an advantageous reaction, before carefully arranging his face into what he wanted to convey.

 

“Don’t do that,” John muttered as Sherlock began to look annoyed.

 

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, without the air of faux innocence that would normally accompany such a question.

 

_ Does he even know he does that…? _

 

“Oh, never mind.”

 

“What?”

 

“Aren’t you going to have a look?” John asked, cringing internally at how annoyed his voice sounded.  _ No wonder everyone always thinks you’re jealous of the Woman.  _

 

_ Wait, who said that I was jealous of her? _

 

_ Am I projecting again? _

 

John sighed, a frown at his lips, as he made a mental note to have another visit with his therapist again. Oh, of course, he’d have to find a new one, since the one he’d thought he was visiting was apparently dead in her own home.  _ Did we ever send anyone to follow up on that? Poor woman probably had a family worried sick…. _ And of course, not Euros. Maybe he’d go to Ella again. She’d be bound to contract whiplash from how many times John had visited and then dropped her. He frowned again, and then realized that Sherlock’s sharp eyes were picking up all of his facial reactions to his thoughts, and probably attributing them to annoyance and jealousy of the Woman, digging him in an even deeper hole.

 

Great.

 

“Have a look?” Sherlock finally asked, features blank except for a slightly raised eyebrow as if to say  _ ‘what are you on about?’ _

 

“At the text,” John clarified.

 

“John,” Sherlock said, annoyance clouding over his features, genuine this time. “How many times must I assure you that I have no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with Irene Adler?”

 

“Funny, she doesn’t seem to think that,” John scoffed, gesturing at Sherlock’s chest, where the phone still sat untouched in the breast pocket of his jacket. “And I thought you told me you texted back? Went off for secret trysts in the dead of night?”

 

“I  _ have _ texted her back, though generally I’ve been using her as a sounding board, since my favorite went off and got ma-” Sherlock closed his mouth. He sighed. “And besides all of that, as she told you explicitly, in person, Irene Adler is gay.”

 

“Oh, come on, she’s got to be at least bisexual,” John scoffed. “Didn’t she, you know, seduce men sometimes? To get information? And you know how obsessed she was with you.”

 

“Sexuality is not as….static as it sometimes appears,” Sherlock said, fixing John with a meaningful look. He swallowed. A bubble of awkwardness began to inflate in the room.

 

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, “an attraction to one….outside of the usual output of one’s sexuality is usually not sustainable in the long term.” His voice was back to that neutral, science-man/detective tone, impersonal and able to mask whatever he may have been feeling. His eye contact lingered for a moment longer, and then he went back to chopping the onion. 

 

John sighed. He remembered back to their conversation in 221B, when he advised Sherlock to start dating her, and Sherlock had admitted to texting back. 

 

“Maybe you should, I don’t know, have her for dinner,” John suggested warily. Sherlock raised an eyebrow delicately. 

 

“I should?” Sherlock looked at his half-chopped onion.

 

“Not dinner  _ here _ , you loon,” John said, exasperated. “I just meant…. in general.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock had a guarded expression on his face.

 

“She’s really not that bad, if you think about it,” John said.”You know, in the grand scheme of things. She never shot your best friend, and though she may have had some weird  _ things _ going on with the government, she’s really quite-” John looked as if he was swallowing a particularly clammy bit of raw seafood and pretending to enjoy it so as not to offend his gracious, foreign host “- _ nice _ -” he choked out. “Besides, it’s probably better to become involved with a blackmailer than a blackmailee-”

 

“I’m gay,” Sherlock said simply.

 

“What?” John said, not sure he had heard correctly.

 

Sherlock didn’t elaborate. John could feel his heartbeat in his ears, rushing like a roaring waterfall.

 

“You’re not asexual or something?”

 

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, although his voice lacked the sincerely intrigued tone it normally took on when he uttered the word.

 

“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s interesting?”

 

“You have deluded yourself into believing that I could have sexual….feelings for Irene Adler, yet you are completely flummoxed when confronted with the fact that I do indeed have a sexuality, suggesting that somewhere deep down, you never truly believed I liked the Woman.”

 

“I- I just thought she….you,” John sputtered. “You- you’re. Gay.”

 

“Yes. Do try to keep up.”

 

“Like. Men. You….sleep with men?”

 

“Hypothetically, yes,” Sherlock snarked. “That’s what gay people do. Glad you’ve made it this far. Do fly with us again.”

 

“You never….?” John tilted his head.

 

“You’ve already convinced yourself I’m an asexual robot, don’t look so surprised,” Sherlock said, snarky confidence wilting a bit. He caught a small piece of onion underneath his fingernail and prodded it into the chopping board.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were gay? After all this time? It’s not like it’s the nineteenth century, Sherlock,” John said, sitting gently in the chair across from him, face still a cross between a rictus and a mask of complete shock.

 

“You never asked,” Sherlock said, shoulder rising in a slight shrug. “It’s not relevant. It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It’s a part of who you are,” John said. “Of  _ course  _ it matters.”

 

“So, you’ll stop bothering me about Irene, then?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Is that why you finally told me?” John mused.

 

“Of course not!” Sherlock said, affronted.

 

“Right. Um. Okay. Well, does Irene know this?”

 

Sherlock’s silence was the answer he needed.

 

“You told the Woman before me??”

  
Sherlock grinned. John becoming jealous of the Woman again- now that was more like it. He picked up the knife and recommenced his chopping endeavors, completely forgetting that he had absolutely no idea what the text said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my subtle rebuttal (ha, that rhymes) to the 'who you are....it doesn't matter' because of course it fucking does you sad excuse for a ghost
> 
> lmk if I made any egregious brit errors! I love you all *sparkle heart emoji*


	6. An Unscrupulous Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock admits something that's been a long time coming. 
> 
> (he may or may not have done so out loud.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~i don't even know what this chapter is~~
> 
> I needed to clear up some ambiguity and how better to do that than through third party conversation in a smoky, jazz filled basement potted plant collection
> 
> here are the chairs I imagined: https://www.ba-sofas.com/gallery-1/originals/88535_TOV-C40-01-Zahara-Black-Leather-Club-Chair1.jpg
> 
> idk why i just told u that
> 
> they're just chairs
> 
> anyway, this chapter sponsored by that Good Kush. just kidding. maybs.

_ “Molly…..” _

 

_ “Don’t. It’s alright.” _

 

_ “Listen. I need to explain.” _

 

_ “Well, it was all in the papers, wasn’t it?” _

 

_ “No, actually, it wasn’t…..” _

 

_ “Oh, well, someone must have told me. It’s okay. ‘ _ Evil Genius Sister Comes For Brother, Forcing Him To Play Mind Games And Hurt People _ ’. You were just playing with her.” _

 

_ “Molly. Listen to me. I did it to save your life." _

 

_ “You did?” _

 

_ “Let me explain…..” _

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock now understood why John had always complained about Mycroft sending cars for him when he was out and about. Sherlock had just finished some more experiments at Saint Bart’s lab, and after running into Molly (and what had ensued; possibly the most awkward conversation of his life) he was looking for a cab when a black car slowed down in front of him. Ignoring it at first, he pushed aside annoyance when he stepped to the side to get a clearer view of the road and the car followed him, inching forward until he was once again directly in front of the door.

 

“ _ Excuse me _ ,” he said, moving again, when it finally dawned on him. This was his ride, welcome or not. And he had a feeling it wouldn’t be carting him back to Baker Street- no, John’s house.

 

A window began to roll down, smooth as molasses pouring from a jar. What an expensive ride.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” a well-dressed woman with a professional coiffure said from inside the car.

 

“I guess I could try to refute that, but I don’t suppose it would do any good,” Sherlock muttered, more to amuse himself than anything else.

 

“Get in the car, please, sir,” she said patiently.

 

Sherlock turned and waved in the direction of the nearest security camera on Bart’s, smiling sardonically for his brother’s benefit.  _ Just  _ call _ me _ , he mouthed.

 

They took off across town, a slow journey, impeded by the traffic of the evening: people rushing home from their jobs, eager to get to dinner, or pick up the kids, or catch the evening news, off to dinner reservations and empty, desolate flats, from the soul-sucking jobs they hated home to an evening of loneliness, or worse,  _ family _ -

 

“You passed it already,” Sherlock informed the driver, bored. On their right, the Diogenes Club spun by.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

Ah. Not Mycroft, then, but who? Was he in danger? Probably not, based on the driver’s earrings, diamond. If this was some sort of crime lord, he or she would never bother to deck their henchmen out in diamonds, not an expendable, easily disappeared chess pawn like a chauffeur. No, a private individual. Sherlock, though he was limited from the backseat view, raked her over. Lesbian, obviously. A woman wearing multiple real diamonds on a casual occasion would have perfectly manicured fingernails, but this woman’s were clipped short. Northerner, based on her cuffs, youngest child, from her collar. Seafood allergy.

 

“Irene Adler’s your boss,” Sherlock stated.

 

“I know,” said the driver. Yes, northerner.

 

Soon, they had apparently reached their destination, a nondescript brick building in an industrial part of town. The driver led Sherlock in a side door. He could hear music pumping, some sort of modern electronic beat with a weird bit on the saxophone. 

 

“Funky fresh,” he remarked sarcastically to his chaperone, who gracefully deigned to respond. She led him down a narrow corridor and down a flight of stairs. They turned right and entered a lush sitting room, full to bursting with potted palms ranging in height from one to six feet. A heady, skunky scent wafted through the room, and Sherlock noted that someone was smoking marijuana nearby. The thumping electronic dance music wasn’t audible from here. Instead, big band jazz played from an ancient gramophone beneath one of the plants. 

 

“You like that? It’s Count Basie and his orchestra.”

 

“Odd choice.” Sherlock hear the door slide closed behind him. Weighted.

 

“Thank you, Gwendolyn,” Irene Adler said, stepping out from behind a plant. Ashton, Marguerite, you may leave us as well.” The driver nodded at Irene and left the room, followed shortly by a man in a well-tailored three piece suit and a Frenchwoman in a long black dress.

 

“Have a seat,” she said to Sherlock, gesturing at a pair of armchairs nestled into the potted plant jungle, facing each other. Sherlock obliged. “Bourbon?” A small side table had a tray of expensive-looking brown liquor in a suitably expensive crystal decanter. Two squat tumblers also sat on the tray. Irene poured several fingers into each glass.

 

“I conduct much of my business here,” she explained, handing Sherlock a glass. “There’s a nightclub upstairs, but it’s mostly a front. Above that, bedrooms.” She winked.

 

“Grand,” Sherlock said flatly. He took a sip of his drink. “Did you drug this?”

 

“My dear, why did you ask only after you had taken a sip?” Irene sighed. “You wound me, as always.”

 

“I simply insinuated that you may have slipped something into my drink. For you to drug me would not be an unprecedented event,” he pointed out.

 

“A fair point,” she conceded. “Here, switch glasses. I certainly didn’t lace the whole decanter, as that would be a tragic waste. Besides, Marguerite had some too.”

 

“And what did you need from her?” Sherlock barbed.

 

“Shall we say….a loan?” Irene asked, smiling beguilingly.

 

“Irene, why am I here?” Sherlock asked. “And you could have simply drugged your own, knowing you’d offer to switch.”

 

“Drink, then we’ll talk.” Irene took both glasses, pouring the contents into back and forth between the tumblers, intermingling the drinks so as to offset any last lingering suspicion of lacing.

 

He drank.

 

His head began to take on that pleasant lightheadedness, and his limbs began to come alive with that satisfying tingle. The liquor was a strong proof, and he’d already had several fingers when Irene filled his glass again. The song ended, and another slower one took his place. Swing music, but subdued. 

 

“I would have loved the nineteen forties, I think,” Irene said.

 

“No you wouldn’t have,” Sherlock said. “You just like….smoke and nightclubs and dresses.” He waved his hands dismissively at the nearest plant. “No one wants to regress that much, socially, except for the American electorate, apparently. What the hell is this stuff?”

 

“Strong,” Irene said.

 

“I can deduce  _ that _ ,” Sherlock responded.

 

“Are you getting nice and drunk yet?” Irene asked. “I must confess, it’s a little extra kick to it.”

 

“I knew you drugged me!” Sherlock accused, pointing a finger at her.

 

“Hush, I had some too,” Irene soothed. “Now, let’s talk business.”

 

“Business? Alas, and here I thought you summoned me for pleasure.”

 

“It’s always a pleasure, Sherlock dear. Now why didn’t you answer my text?”

 

“John heard it.”

 

“Aw, is he still the pining little dog? Adorable,” Irene crooned. She stroked the leaf of a potted paradise palm.

 

“He’s  _ married _ ,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

 

“Sherlock, you know he isn’t, not anymore,” Irene said. “But that’s beside the point. You know I wouldn’t have had to bother with the abduction game if you just read my text.”

 

“Ah, where’s the adventure in that?”

 

“For a second there, love, I thought you were going to say romance,” Irene teased.

 

“ _ Romance _ ,” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“Silence, you’ll pull something.”

 

“I’ll….what?”

 

“You’ll pull something, acting too hard.” Irene smiled innocently. “Now, what I brought you here to discuss.”

 

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, draining the rest of the tumbler. He much preferred it with ice. “Have you got any rocks?”

 

“Rocks?” Irene seemed puzzled. Sherlock scowled. 

 

“Uncomfortable,” he muttered, pulling his legs up under him and resting his head on the chair’s arm. “Now you’re sideways.”

 

“Oh dear, I didn’t think it would affect you this much,” Irene said, frowning. “Hopefully, it will render you more….susceptible.”

 

“So….suscept me.” Sherlock made a grand gesture with his left arm.

 

“I want you to go back into business,” Irene stated.

 

“Business?”

 

“The crime solving. It’s not good for my….investments….if you’re just sitting around dabbling with poisons in the lab, playing house with John Watson, pining after your last speedball.”

 

“I’m not pining,” Sherlock said, face screwing up in disdain. “John’s….”

 

“I said pining after heroin, not John,” Irene said, raising an impeccably groomed eyebrow.

 

Sherlock sulked. The air in the room felt humid somehow, but as if it was affecting only his brain, not his respiration.

 

“But while we’re on the subject….” Irene smiled. “What is going on there?”

 

_ I want him. I want to know what his lips taste like, I want to see what he looks like when he comes, I want to find out what makes his breath catch in his throat, I want to raise his heartbeat. I want to know what his hair smells like in the morning. _

 

Irene was looking at him strangely.

 

“Did I….say any of that?” He whirled a finger around. Drunk. 

 

She sighed. “Fix your face, darling, you look like a fourteen year old auditioning for her school’s production of Romeo and Juliet.”

 

“ _ Your _ face,” Sherlock retorted.

 

“Does he know?”

 

“No!” Sherlock shouted, trying his best to sit upright but failing miserably.  He flailed his limbs wildly, trying desperately to keep his balance.

 

“How about a little deal, then?” Irene proposed.

 

“Deal?” Sherlock asked.

 

“You go back to work, and I kept your secret safe. For now,” she said.

 

“Why? Why are you doing this?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“I’ll have Gwendolyn take you back to your place,” Irene said, taking another sip of her tumbler of bourbon. “I’ll be sending you a reminder in the morning.”

 

“Woman!” Sherlock growled.

 

“Goodnight, Sherlock darling,” Irene said, standing above him. He blinked, and she was gone. He swirled away into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If canon sherlock holmes can say ‘true dat’ then i can make him say funky fresh it is LAW
> 
> Also I added ‘spooky DVD’ ghost to the characters tag bE PROUD OF ME DAMMIT JIM
> 
> Writing Irene is so much funnnnnnnnnnnn
> 
> (MY SINCERE APOLOGIES TO THOSE OF U THAT SUBSCRIBED TO MY USER AND NOT JUST THIS FIC AND GOT MY SPORTAROBBIE APOCCALYPSE AU IN YOUR INBOXES)


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